


Fifty-Two Weeks

by sonata_de_morte



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonata_de_morte/pseuds/sonata_de_morte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sentence, for all it was not the outcome Draco would have preferred, was hardly something he could complain about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SunseticMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunseticMonster/gifts).



> Written for Prisonerfest 2013

The sentence, for all it was not the outcome Draco would have preferred, was hardly something he could complain about. After seeing his father being led away in chains, watching his stooped and broken posture and the way that he wouldn't even look at Draco or Narcissa as they took him out of the courtroom, Draco realized that a year on house arrest was nothing. It was a blessing, actually, almost a gift, and no matter how much he balked at being made to stay in the manor for a year with nothing to do but stare at the walls and loathe the old pile of bricks, it was far better than rotting away in Azkaban with his thoughts and the remnants of the Dementor's misery.   
  
Of course, Draco knew that he had gotten off easy. The outraged faces of some of the witches and wizards present for his trial proved that, but in the midst of all the disapproving chatter and snide glances stood Harry Potter, looking firm, resolved, and utterly exhausted.   
  
Draco had no idea why Potter had stepped forward and testified that Draco 'wasn't evil, just a bit of a prat with a shit upbringing', but it was assuredly that testimony that had resulted in Draco not being sent off. No matter how much the public or the Wizengamot hated him (and Draco knew that it had to be quite a bit), no one was willing to tell the newly minted Savior of the World that he couldn't have what he wanted.   
  
And so Draco was free.   
  
Well.  
  
Free- _ish._ He wasn't in a cell or in chains, and the only thing that tethered him where he was was the thin silvery bracelet that had been charmed onto his left wrist. It practically molded to his skin, and it was colder than his body temperature, and no amount of natural body heat seemed to want to warm it up. A constant reminder, then. He knew that it would start to heat up the further he got from the manor, and if he tried to leave the grounds at all, it would take him directly to the Ministry where they would likely decide that Harry Potter would just have to deal with it, and throw him in jail. But Draco never went outside anyway, so there was no danger of that.  
  
For the most part, he could do whatever he wanted. The only rule, other than not leaving the grounds, was no Dark magic. There was a monitoring charm on his wand that would track all of the magic that he did, and he had been informed that a Ministry employee would be assigned to his case to check up on him. They made it sound like it was for _his_ benefit, but Draco didn't believe that for a moment. They just wanted to make sure that he wasn't holed up and planning to become the next Dark Lord or some such thing. The more practical side of Draco had to admit that that was smart of them, as he was the only Marked Death Eater who hadn't come out of the war with a death sentence, life in prison, or a price on his head. But the side of him that hated being confined to one place and was livid at this treatment thought the whole thing was rather stupid.  
  
The longer he spent alone in the manor, the more that side took over. It was August, and the air was close and hot, making him feel even more stifled than he already did.  
  
It wouldn't have been so bad if his mother had been there, but she had only been under suspicion of Death Eater activities. When it came down to it, Narcissa Malfoy had never been Marked, and she had never taken part in any tortures or murders, so they'd had no choice but to let her go. And go she had. All Draco knew was that she planned to start over and that when his sentence was over she wanted him to join her in France. He had essentially been abandoned.   
  
He hid how much that hurt under a layer of anger.  
  
Now, he was sitting in his parlor in the west wing of the manor, glaring at the cup of tea that the lone house elf had brought him. Most of them had been dismissed during the war, but Mippy had remained, wanting to stay with the family. Mippy wasn't a young elf, even though Draco had no idea how long elves lived, but she had been with the family since he was a child.   
  
"Is Master Draco wanting anything else?" she asked in her squeaky voice, long fingers twisting in the pillow case dress that she wore.  
  
"Nothing that you can bring me, Mippy," Draco muttered, sinking down further in the dusty chair. The manor was a mess; that was the other thing. When Voldemort had commandeered it, he hadn't cared much for its upkeep. It was dank and dark and there was dust, grime, and broken furniture everywhere. It was no wonder his mother hadn't stayed. Hell, Draco was half convinced that he was going to stumble upon a dead body in one of the rooms, so he kept himself to his parlor and bedroom.  
  
"Master Draco is getting very thin," Mippy tried again. "Mippy could bring cake?"   
  
Draco sighed and raked a hand through his hair. It had only been five days so far, and already he felt like he was going mad. "No, Mippy," he said. "No cake. I just...I need to sleep. Or something."   
  
Mippy nodded. "Mippy will draw Master Draco a bath." She bowed and popped away before Draco could protest, and he realized as he stared at the spot where she had been that he didn't care. Normally, he would have demanded a bath ages ago since he was no doubt streaked with dust from the house, but he just didn't care. What was the point of having an immaculate appearance when there was no one to see it? When he lived in a broken down old ruin of a house with no one but an elf for company? There was no point, clearly.   
  
"A man could go mad here," he muttered under his breath, levering himself to his feet and heading for his bedroom and its en suite bathroom. Only three hundred and sixty days to go.  
  


* * *

  
"I'm the _what?!_ "  
  
"Harry, there's no need to shout."   
  
Harry frowned and folded his arms. He was of the opinion that there was every need to shout. "Say it again, Kingsley. And in English this time. None of that Ministry speak."   
  
The dark skinned man laughed and shook his head. "You're the Appointed Official for the Malfoy case, Harry. It's what it sounds like. You've got to go make sure he's alive and not trying to overthrow the government."   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "Malfoy couldn't overthrow a rubbish bin. Why me?"   
  
"Do you want the honest answer or the one I'm supposed to give you?"   
  
Harry rather thought his glare answered that question.  
  
"I figured. For one thing, no one else wants it." Kingsley held up a hand to stop the protest that Harry was barely avoiding shouting at him. "I _know_. You don't want it, either. But the fact of the matter is I trust you not to...take advantage of the situation. You know there are plenty of Aurors who wouldn't hesitate to make this worse for Mr. Malfoy."   
  
And yeah, Harry had to admit that was true. "I'm not even an Auror, Kingsley. Not really."   
  
"Not yet," Kingsley replied. "But you're as good as. You're on the Ministry payroll for the DMLE, and that's all you need to be considered for this position."   
  
"Brilliant," Harry groaned, raking a hand through his already messy hair. It wasn't fair. He had done his part, done the right thing and kept Malfoy and his mother out of Azkaban. He would have been perfectly happy to have washed his hands of the whole family after that, but apparently it wasn't to be. "What do I have to do, then?"   
  
Kingsley looked relieved that Harry wasn't going to argue. "It's actually very simple, and there's a checklist to make sure that you don't miss anything. We'll teach you the spell to check for Dark magic and artifacts, and you'll cast that just to be sure that he's not out there plotting. You'll need to check the charm on his bracelet as well and try to determine his mental condition."   
  
"I have to play therapist with Malfoy?" Harry asked, sounding horrified.   
  
"No, no, nothing like that. Just ask him questions and the like. We just want to make sure that he isn't going mad or anything. Being alone in there is probably not the easiest thing, and if necessary we can have him moved to St Mungo's. Especially if he seems like he's going to be a threat to himself or others."   
Harry nodded and sighed. He hadn't really thought about how it would affect Malfoy to be essentially trapped in his house for a year, and he had to shudder now that he did. "Yeah, okay," he said, sounding resigned. "How often do I have to go over there?"   
  
"Once a week."   
  
"Once a bloody _week?_ "  
  
Kingsley sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Yes, Harry."   
  
"Once a week for a _year?_ "  
  
"Yes."   
  
"Fuck."   
  
"It won't be all that bad, Harry," Kingsley promised, though how he could sound so sure, Harry didn't know.   
  
"You'll be there for about an hour, and that's it. You run the checklist and then you can leave."   
  
Harry sighed heavily and nodded. "Yeah, alright. When's the first check?"  
  
"Sometime in the next two days."   
  
Harry was supremely proud of himself for not shouting more than he did.  
  


* * *

Malfoy Manor was the same dark, desolate looking place that it had been the last time Harry had set foot there. The grounds were grown over, and there were burnt patches in the grass, probably from spells gone awry. The gates swung open at his touch, and Harry knew that the Ministry had sent curse breakers and Aurors all through the place to have them dismantle any Dark spells and remove any Dark objects right at the war's end. They had also seized a sizable portion of the Malfoy fortune and called it 'War Reparations' or something fancy like that to make it sound like the family was being soundly punished.   
  
It was the height of summer now, and the air was thick with heat. Though it was uncharacteristically sunny for the location, there seemed to be a permanent gloom over this place. As he walked up the path to the house, Harry shuddered again. He didn't envy Malfoy being trapped here.   
  
When he got to the ornately carved front doors, he hesitated and then stretched his hand out to touch one of the golden knockers, but before his fingers could make contact, the doors were opening in front of him. An elf dressed in what looked like a pillow case stood there, and she bowed low. "Harry Potter," she addressed him in her squeaky voice.  
  
"Er...hi," Harry said. "Is Malfoy home?"   
  
The flash of disbelief that went through the elf's large blue eyes made Harry wince with the stupidity of that question and wish he could go back a few seconds and not ask it, but it was too late for that. "What I mean is, can I see him?"   
  
Now the elf just looked suspicious. "Master Draco is not expecting visitors, Harry Potter."   
  
"I know. And I probably should have owled first. I'm here from the Ministry." Yes, that would have been a much better plan than just showing up.  
  
That appeared to have been the right thing to say because those eyes widened, and the elf stepped back. "Wait," she said, letting him into the entrance way. "Mippy will fetch Master Draco." She popped off with a loud crack, leaving Harry standing there. He closed the doors behind him and looked around, blinking at the disrepair. He could see shards of broken porcelain and dust on the floor, and there were torn drapes and grimy sconces near the windows. It didn't look like a place that Draco Malfoy would live, but he supposed that a lot had happened here and cleanliness hadn't been anyone's first priority.  
  
From somewhere upstairs there was a loud oath and the sound of several things breaking. He could just barely make out the squeaky tones of the elf and the slam of a door before footsteps sounded on the stairs and Malfoy was coming down.  
  
He didn't look at all like the Malfoy Harry remembered from school. Gone was the carefully slicked back hair and the superior tilt to his head, replaced with a weary almost slouch and white blond hair that fell into Malfoy's eyes and over the collar of the grey shirt he was wearing. The sleeves were rolled up, and Harry could make out the dark lines of the Mark and the silver bracelet on his wrist as Malfoy drew closer.   
  
"What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded when he was standing in front of Harry. "Come to gloat? Take pictures to share with the rest of your merry band of do-gooding imbeciles?"   
  
Ah. At least he was still a prick, then. Harry felt more on balance. "You know, you'd think you could find it in you to be a little bit grateful at least," Harry said. "Since you'd be wasting away in a cell if it weren't for me."   
  
Malfoy glared, but Harry noticed there wasn't much anger in those pale eyes. "A prison is a prison, Potter," he snapped. "Now what are you doing here? Mippy said you came from the Ministry."   
  
"That's right," Harry replied. The best thing to do was get down to business. "I've been assigned to be your...er..." he made a face and looked down at the sheaf of parchments in his hands. "Appointed Official."   
  
Judging from the look on Malfoy's face when Harry glanced back up, he knew what that meant. "Why would they give the job to you of all people?" Malfoy muttered.   
  
Harry shrugged. "They thought I was the least likely to want to pound your face in, I think."   
  
Malfoy was silent for long seconds, seemingly absorbing that. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Fine. What am I supposed to do?"   
  
"Er...nothing, really. Just...I have to cast a spell that searches for Dark stuff, and check the charm on your bracelet. And...er...see how you're doing."   
  
"Then get on with it, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "I've things to do."   
  
Harry looked around again and then back at Malfoy. "Right. Of course." He ignored the death glare that Malfoy was shooting him and pulled out his wand, casting the spell that Kingsley had taught him. A ball of light shot out of his wand and began to whiz around, clearly on the hunt for Dark magic.   
  
"You had better hope that doesn't damage anything, Potter. I'm sure your salary as Ministry puppet pays well, but you can't afford to replace anything here."   
  
"You know what would make this go faster, Malfoy?" Harry asked through gritted teeth. "If you managed to shut up."   
  
Malfoy sneered. "This is my house, Potter. I'll say whatever I bloody well want to."   
  
Harry clenched his hands into fists and tried to find some of that maturity that the papers were always saying he had. "Whatever. Let me see the bracelet." He held his hand out expectantly without looking at Malfoy at first, but then his eyes went up to his face when Malfoy seemed to hesitate. "I have to check the charm, Malfoy. Let me see it."  
  
With a put upon sigh, Malfoy lifted up his sleeve and placed his wrist in Harry's hand. Merlin, but Malfoy was pale. His veins stood out starkly in the nearly translucent skin, running between the silver bracelet on his wrist and the beginning of the Dark Mark. Harry had seen the Mark before, of course, both on the forearms of Death Eaters and floating in the sky over homes and Hogwarts, but it was strange being so close to it. The lines seemed harsher than usual, branded into Malfoy's milky skin, and Harry had to work to tear his eyes away and focus on the bracelet. It was a simple thing, silver and carved with runes that were designed to keep Malfoy tied to the Manor. He murmured the incantation that Kingsley had told him to, and nodded when the bracelet glowed brightly for a moment and then dulled.   
  
"Finished?" Malfoy asked, and there was a curious tremor to his voice.  
  
"Yeah," Harry replied, and Malfoy jerked his arm back, rolling his sleeve down quickly. They stood there in awkward silence after that, Harry unsure what to say, and Malfoy seeming disinclined to say anything at all. He had the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his left forearm, and he was staring at a patch of scuffed wood on the floor. Harry fidgeted, wishing that damned spell would hurry up. There was a suggested list of questions on his checklist, so he figured he might as well ask them. "Er...how are you adjusting?"   
  
Malfoy looked up. "Excuse me?"   
  
"It's one of the...just...how are you adjusting?"   
  
"Adjusting to _what?_ Being a prisoner in my own home? My parents being as good as dead for all they can help me? The fact that this place is a mess and full of terrible memories? Please, Potter, _enlighten_ me as to what I am supposed to be adjusting to."   
  
Harry sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "I don't know, Malfoy. Pick one. We'll tackle the other ones next week." It was almost a joke, but not a funny one, he knew.   
  
"I'm fine," Malfoy snapped. "I am not some delicate flower who cannot handle..." He stopped and took a deep breath. "I'm fine."   
  
"Alright. Good," Harry muttered, scribbling something on the check list. The next question was just as ridiculous. "Are you having urges?" Merlin, he was going to give Kingsley a piece of his mind when he got back to the Ministry.  
  
"Urges," Malfoy repeated, deadpan.   
  
"Urges." Harry held up the list and pointed to the word. "Apparently they need to know."   
  
Malfoy scowled. "You can tell the Ministry, in their infinite wisdom, that the only urge I have, other than to pitch myself from the highest balcony, is to take something sufficiently thick and pointy and shove it up their collective arses."   
  
Harry took a step back, a little surprised by the venom in Malfoy's voice and the way it sharpened his posh accent to something icy and dangerous. "I think I'll just paraphrase and tell them you're fine," he said after a moment. "You're not actually going to throw yourself off anything, are you?"   
  
"No, Potter," Malfoy replied, and now he just sounded weary. "That would be far too easy."   
  
The ball of light came zooming back, still bright and unsullied by darkness. "Alright, house is clean, then," Harry said. "Well," he amended. "Clean of Dark magic, anyway. That's my cue to go."   
  
"And good riddance," Malfoy said, gesturing to the doors. "I'm sure you can see yourself out."   
  
He turned and headed back up the stairs, but as Harry left, he could have sworn he heard something crash behind him, though there was no way he was going back to check. "See you next week," he muttered under his breath, heading back down the long path.  
  


* * *

  
It was at the beginning of the second week when Draco found the bottles. He had grown tired of staring at the same gold toned wallpaper of his parlor and his bedroom held little comfort, so he'd gone exploring, reasoning that if there had been corpses in the house, the smell would have alerted him. Or would have alerted Mippy, who would have disposed of them like a good elf should. But then, she'd done nothing about the mess the manor was in, so perhaps Mippy wasn't all that reliable anymore.  
  
For reasons Draco didn't want to contemplate, he'd begun in his father's study.   
  
He'd never been allowed in there as a child, always staring at the mahogany door with a mixture of trepidation and longing. He'd wanted his father to come out more than he'd wanted to go in, and he had always wondered what would happen if he'd knocked and asked very politely for his father to come play with him in the garden.  
  
But Draco had known what Lucius looked like when he was upset, and the threat of seeing coldness in those grey eyes, so like his own, had always been enough to keep him rooted to the spot until his mother came to shoo him away with promises of cake and presents.   
  
Now there were no threats to keep him from pushing that door open, so he had, feeling the lingering traces of a locking spell that dissipated under his touch, no longer needed.   
  
For some reason that hurt.  
  
The room was pristine, if a little dusty, and Draco wondered how it was that Voldemort had never destroyed this. Draco had always seen it as the center of his father's power, and Voldemort had been hell bent on making sure that the Malfoy patriarch knew that he was nothing, but the room was untouched.   
  
There was the large mahogany desk and the comfortable looking chair behind it, the multitudes of books that filled the shelves that lined the walls (though there were gaps where the Ministry had come and taken the more questionable ones), the rug in front of the Floo, and a cupboard off to the side that Draco had never seen inside of.  
  
His heart pounded as he stepped closer to it, wondering what could possibly be inside. Nothing sinister or Potter's spell would have found it. A journal? Letters? Some sign that his father had cared for more than power and status?  
  
Draco scoffed at himself and pulled open one of the doors.  
  
Oh.  
  
It was full of bottles. Old, beautifully designed bottles with names on the labels that Draco had never heard of before. He reached in and pulled one out, noting the etching of a stag's head on the glass. The name _The Dalmore_ was etched under it, and Draco traced his fingers over it with a frown.  
  
It didn't surprise him that his father should have a collection of very old and likely very expensive alcohol, but it seemed like these were Muggle brands.  
  
A harsh laugh escaped Draco as he pulled bottle after bottle out. _Glenfarclas, 1955. The Macallan, 1939. Glenfiddich, 1937_. They all lacked that little spark of magic that belonged to things of this world, and Draco nearly hurled one of the bottles at the wall.  
  
The utter fucking _bastard._ All of his talk about superiority and purity and magic being the answer to everything, and he had a horde of Muggle liquor stashed away in his fucking study.  
  
Draco's fingers tightened on the neck of one of the bottles, and before he knew it he was popping it open. It wasn't as if Lucius could find out and hurt him for it, and all of a sudden Draco wanted a drink.  
  
He put the bottle to his lips and drank, gasping at the smooth burn of it. It was different than drinking Firewhiskey with Blaise and Pansy at Hogwarts. For one, this was a more desperate sort of thing. But the warmth in his stomach was the same, and Draco found himself swigging again, licking his lips and then gathering four of the bottles and carrying them up to his room. There were enough bottles left in the cupboard to last him a while. Perhaps a whole year.  
  


* * *

  
"Come off it, Hermione," Ron argued. "He deserved worse than he got. What's so bad about having to be at home for a year?"   
  
"You remember how creepy that place was, Ron," Hermione replied. "And Voldemort lived there. I can only imagine the kind of memories it holds for Draco."  
  
"He's _Draco_ now?"   
  
Hermione made a face and waved her hand impatiently. "We're not at school anymore. I think we can all afford to do a little growing up."   
  
Harry shook his head and downed the last of his pint, making a motion to Tom for another while he sorted through his basket of chips for the crispier ones. If he'd known it was going to spark a debate between Ron and Hermione, Harry rather thought he would have decided _not_ to bring up his little trip to Malfoy Manor. But both of his friends had been sufficiently horrified to find out about his new duties, and that was the reaction he had been looking for.  
  
"But that doesn't mean we have to like the ferret, does it?" Ron was asking, looking to Harry for confirmation. "I mean, Harry doesn't like him. Do you?"   
  
"Nope. Definitely don't like him," Harry agreed. "I think he's going to be even more of a rude prat when he finishes his year, but Hermione's right. It's sort of awful there."   
  
"Yeah, I reckon no one stuck around to clean the place up once You Know Who and his lot cleared out." Ron shuddered. "Well, still. That's what he gets for having old snake face there in the first place."  
  
Harry frowned, remembering how scared Malfoy had always looked when Harry had seen him. "Something tells me it wasn't his choice, Ron."  
  
It was Friday night, and once again Harry had put off going to the manor until the last possible minute. He planned to go the next morning or early afternoon, but he was dreading it. Malfoy was going to be a twat, and he was going to have to ask him more uncomfortable questions and see that weary, unhappy look on that pointed face.  
  
Harry looked up when he realized that Hermione had asked him something. "Er...what? Sorry, Hermione, I was..."  
  
"Not listening," Hermione finished, shaking her head. "I'm used to it. I was asking if there was anything you could do to help cheer Draco up. I don't imagine he has much to do to entertain himself."   
  
"I'm not trying to be his friend, Hermione," Harry protested. "I've just got to do the checklist. That's it."   
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying you have to be his friend. But you're probably the only person he's going to be seeing for the next year. Imagine how it feels to be locked away and alone."   
  
The problem was that Harry knew exactly how that felt. He'd spent plenty of nights as a child, locked in his cupboard and wishing that someone would come along for just a few minutes to talk to him or offer some sort of distraction that would make things better. He sighed and knew he was fucked.  
  


* * *

  
Nothing had changed about the manor in the days since he'd been there, and Harry had to wonder what Malfoy had a house-elf for if not for straightening the place up, although he supposed it was a large job for one elf.   
  
Said elf came to the doors no sooner than he had reached them, her large eyes wide and fearful. "Now is not being a good time, Harry Potter," she squeaked out, wringing her hands.  
  
"Yeah, well," Harry replied. "It's got to be today or Malfoy and I are both going to get into trouble."   
  
The sound of something crashing echoed through the vast entrance way, and Harry frowned.   
  
"Master Draco is not well," the elf said. "He is..." she trailed off.  
  
"He is going to be in danger of having to go to prison if I don't fill this form out and return it before the end of the day."   
  
That seemed to sway her. "Come in, Harry Potter," the elf sighed, and Harry obeyed, wincing as something heavy thumped into something else and echoed through the manor.  
  
"What the bloody hell is he doing?"   
  
"Harry Potter should follow Mippy."   
  
Seeing that he wasn't going to get a straight answer, Harry obeyed, following Mippy up a large staircase and down a dusty, poorly lit corridor until they reached what looked like a large sitting room. Malfoy was standing in the middle of it, a pile of china plates and glassware on the couch next to him. As Harry watched, Malfoy picked up a rather beautifully cut goblet and lobbed it at the wall, watching with flat eyes as the glass exploded all over the floor. From the state of the room, he'd been at this awhile.  
  
And from the smell of things, he was not entirely in his right mind.  
  
"Dammit, Malfoy," Harry groaned.  
  
Malfoy whipped around, and Harry could see that his clothes were filthy, streaked with dust and grime, and that his hair was in disarray, falling into his face and curling slightly over his collar. There was a ruddiness to his cheeks, but that was clearly from exertion and whatever it was he was drinking.  
  
"Potter," Malfoy drawled, still managing to sound condescending even surrounded by broken glass and china and swaying slightly on the spot. "Who let you in?"   
  
"Your elf," Harry replied, pointing to Mippy who was backed into a corner and looking at her master with worry written all over her face. "What the hell are you doing?"   
  
"What does it look like, Potter? I am smashing this place to bits. It belongs in a pile of rubble."  
  
"Yeah, okay. Only you've got to live here for another fifty weeks. So you might want to halt the destruction a bit."   
  
Malfoy scowled. "Just do your spells and ask your questions so you can get out of my sight, Potter."   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine." He pulled out his wand and did the spell for detecting Dark magic, watching as it whipped around the room before looking back at Malfoy. "Arm," he said, holding out his hand.  
  
Malfoy made his way closer to him, and Harry hoped that he wasn't going to fall over because he didn't think Malfoy would take too kindly to having Harry try to catch him. His sleeves were rolled up again, and his skin looked even paler this time, if that were possible. Malfoy was so fucking thin and delicate looking, like one wrong move would have his skin splitting and bruising, and Harry tried to keep his touch light as he held that bony wrist, waving his wand over the bracelet. He had no desire to see Malfoy bleeding again.  
  
The charm flared just as brightly as it had last time, and Harry wrote that down once he had released Malfoy's wrist.  
  
"Well?" Malfoy asked, propping his hands on his hips. "Go on, then."   
  
"Er...what?"   
  
Grey eyes rolled. "Don't you have to ask me about my mental state? Determine my fragility?"   
  
"What I really want to determine is how you can say words like fragility when you're this pissed," Harry muttered.  
  
"I am _not_ pissed, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "Heathens get pissed, and I am not a heathen."   
  
Harry snorted, his eyes raking over Malfoy's disheveled appearance. "Right. Of course not."   
  
"Oh, fuck you. I don't need your fucking judgment, Potter. Ask your bloody questions and then get the fuck out."   
  
"What have you been drinking?"   
  
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I'm fairly certain that that is _not_ one of the questions on your list."   
  
"So what if it isn't?"   
  
"It's none of your business what I'm drinking." There was pure anger in Malfoy's tone, and Harry got the feeling that not all of it was directed at him.  
  
"Fine. Whatever." He consulted his list. "Are you harboring feelings of ill will towards the Ministry or anyone associated with it?" Merlin, but these were idiotic.  
  
Malfoy tapped his lips with one finger. "Hm, let's see," he snapped. "Considering how very much I would like to punch you in your smug face right now, I'm going to say, yes. I am."   
  
"What the hell would I be smug about?" Harry asked incredulously. "Do you think I _like_ doing this? Because I really, really don't."  
  
"Oh, poor fucking Potter!" Malfoy spat, hurling another piece of glassware at the wall. "I'm so sorry you have to cut into the time you could be spending signing autographs or whatever the fuck it is you do to come make sure I'm not about to lose my fucking mind! How horrible it must be to be you."  
  
"What are you on about?" Harry demanded. "I didn't say that. I'm just-"  
  
"At least you get the added perk of getting to see me like this. You probably asked for it. So you could come here and lord over me. Is this payback, Potter? For school and the things I said to you and your friends?"   
  
"Malfoy, I-"  
  
"It probably is. And yet, you probably go home feeling proud of yourself at the same time, because hey, at least you did the good thing and didn't let me go to Azkaban." Malfoy was breathing hard and his face was even redder. "Well, you know what, Potter? Rotting is rotting no matter where you do it. So you didn't fucking save me."   
  
Harry let out a slow breath and looked at the other man. "Okay. You're drunk and talking nonsense, and I'm going to leave."   
  
"Good. Because I don't want you here!"   
  
"Yeah, I got that, thanks." Harry rolled up the list and left the room, stomping down the stairs. He was so tired of fighting with Malfoy, and he didn't even know what the hell they were fighting about this time. The war was over, and while he wasn't exactly looking to be friends with the git, it would at least be nice if they could be civil to each other for the next fucking year.  
  
But apparently that was too much to hope for.  
  
Once he was out of the gates, Harry Apparated to Grimmauld Place. The house was still dark and somewhat gloomy, but he and his friends had worked on it during those few weeks between the war and the trials, making it livable. And after spending time in the destruction of Malfoy Manor, his house seemed downright cheery. It was just as empty, though. Emptier, perhaps because Harry lived alone. Kreacher had elected to stay at Hogwarts, and Harry had been fine with that.   
  
He dropped onto his couch and sighed, pressing his hands over his face. Harry wasn't entirely sure why Malfoy's apparent descent into drunken madness bothered him so much. It wasn't as if he thought that he deserved it, but Malfoy was an adult, and if he wanted to drink himself into an oblivion, then who was Harry to interfere with that?  
  
"Damned saving people thing," Harry muttered into his hands. It was the same feeling that had compelled him into making sure that Malfoy and his mother wouldn't go to Azkaban. There was some part of him that wanted to see what Malfoy would do if he had the chance to live his life without being under anyone's thumb. He wanted to give him that chance.   
  
Hermione would no doubt be proud of him, but he could already hear Ron groaning. Hell, he was groaning himself, but his mind was already made up.  
  


* * *

  
Time apparently passed very quickly when you spent most of it in a drunken stupor, and Draco couldn't tell one day from another, really. All he knew was that Mippy brought him tea and soup at different times and pleaded with him in her squeaky voice until he ate and drank. She ran him baths, and Draco sat in them, cleaning himself up before staggering back to the growing stash of bottles in his bedroom.  
  
It didn't feel like a week had passed, but Draco could feel it when the wards warned him that someone was approaching the manor. He was lying face down on the couch in his parlor, too drunk to move. The room went spinning every time he lifted his head, and he groaned when Mippy's cracking appearance made him jump. His stomach felt sloshy and full, and a wave of nausea went through him when he even thought about moving, so he didn't.   
  
"Master Draco, Harry Potter is being back."   
  
Draco made a vague noise. The last person he wanted to see was Harry Potter, but he couldn't make that come out of his mouth. He cracked one eye open and peered at Mippy just in time to see her disappear with another crack.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
He closed his eye again and pressed his face into the musty smelling cushion of the couch. Draco could remember shouting at Potter the last time he was here, and apparently this was his payback. To be prone and pathetic as always.  
  
Footsteps announced Potter's presence, and Draco sighed, not bothering to acknowledge him.  
  
"Well, at least you're not throwing things this time," Potter mumbled. "Are you alive over there, Malfoy?"   
  
Draco made another noise, this one meant to sound scathing, but affirming.  
  
"Right." Potter sighed. "Look, Malfoy. I'm here early because I wanted to talk to you. Like, actually talk and not yell or goad. Do you think we can do that?"   
  
"Mmrgh," Draco replied.   
  
"Fuck's sake." Potter came closer and leaned in before apparently jumping back. "Christ, Malfoy. Are you bathing in alcohol? You smell like...well, you probably don't want to know. Can you sit up?"   
  
Draco shook his head and then immediately regretted it when his stomach rolled unpleasantly. He swallowed back the tide of nausea and tried to make words come out of his mouth. "Go'way."   
  
"I will not," Potter said back. "Even if you're too drunk to talk to me, I still have to do my job."  
  
"Sod your job," Draco mumbled into the couch.  
  
"I wish it were that simple."   
  
Potter's voice was close again, and then there were hands on Draco's arms, digging in tightly and pulling him up into a sitting position. The movement made his stomach lurch, and Draco had to breathe deeply through his nose to avoid giving in to the sensation.  
  
He let his eyes open, and they were sore and gritty, making Draco realize that he had no idea how long he'd been on that couch. "What d'you want?" he managed.  
  
"I told you. I want to talk to you. But that's going to be pretty impossible until you sober up."   
  
"Don't want t'sober up."  
  
Potter snorted. "Clearly. At the very least, I'm going to make sure you don't die on a dusty old couch. You're better than that, don't you think?"   
  
"No." That one was easy to answer. Draco _wasn't_ better than that. He was the last of a dying family. His father was most likely going to die in Azkaban, leaving Draco and his mother to fend for themselves. Draco was worth less than scum these days, and he didn't know what was going to happen in a year's time. It seemed vast and frightening, and he just wanted to drink until he couldn't feel that anymore.   
  
Quite without his permission, tears spilled down his cheeks. There was nothing he could do to stop them, so he just stared blankly at the opposite wall, his breath hitching in his chest.  
  
"Hey. Hey, don't cry," Potter said, sounding alarmed. "Malfoy, come on."   
  
Draco dropped his face into his hands and tried to breathe. "You don't get it." If he spoke slowly, he only slurred his words a little bit, he found. "I'm no-nothing, Potter. I failed. Father's gone. Mother's gone. M'alone. Going to die here."   
  
"No, you won't!" The couch dipped as Potter sat next to him, but Draco didn't turn his head to look. "Malfoy, you can't think like that, okay? Yeah, things suck now, but they can change. Things can change."   
  
Draco wanted to shout back that no, they didn't. Nothing changed except to get worse. But when he opened his mouth, everything that he had been holding back seemed to rush out at once.  
  


* * *

  
It was a unique experience, Harry had to say, being thrown up on. It wasn't something he wanted to experience again, and from the miserable look on Malfoy's face as he looked up from where he had vomited all over Harry's shoes, it was just as bad for him.  
  
The pale boy looked like he wanted to say something, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped sideways on the couch, out cold.   
  
Harry sighed and raked a hand through his hair. How the hell did he get himself into things like this? He tried not to breathe too deeply, the smell of sick and alcohol threatening to make him light headed. "Mippy?" he called, hoping that he was remembering the elf's name right.  
  
When she appeared, her eyes went wide and watery at the sight of her master. "Oh, Master Draco!" she cried, wringing her hands.  
  
"Yeah, he's had a bit of an issue," Harry said. "D'you think you could..." he gestured to his feet.  
  
"Oh!" Mippy snapped her fingers, and his shoes were clean and no longer smelled awful.  
  
"Thanks. We should try to get him to bed or something," Harry said, nodding in Malfoy's direction. "He's out cold."   
  
"Poor Master Draco," Mippy said, shaking her head and snapping her fingers again so that Malfoy's body rose up off the couch. "He is being so sad and alone."   
  
Harry sighed. "Yeah, that makes sense. I guess it doesn't help that his house is a depressing mess on top of everything else." Suddenly an idea formed in his head.  
  


* * *

  
Draco remembered very little when he woke up. It was dark in his room, but the curtains were pulled back, giving him a view of the night sky. He thought it must have been early afternoon when he'd passed out, and that memory led to a flood of others.   
  
He remembered vomiting all over Potter and possibly crying, spilling out words about his father and being a failure. His cheeks flushed and he pressed his face into his pillow, wishing he could just disappear. By now Potter was more than likely at some pub with his gaggle of Gryffindors, talking about how pitiful Draco Malfoy was and how he had gotten what he deserved.   
  
His head was pounding, and his mouth tasted like death. "Fuck," he mumbled, letting out a messy breath.  
  
From somewhere downstairs there was a crash and a muted curse, and Draco frowned. That voice was too deep to be Mippy's, and unless he was about to be robbed, that meant that Potter was still in the house.  
  
Draco dragged himself out of his bed, frowning harder when he realized he couldn't remember how he had gotten into it. Mippy hadn't put him to bed since he was a child, and he was horrified to think that it had been Potter.  
  
The only way to find out was to leave the room, and so Draco ran his fingers through his hair and made his way down the stairs, wincing as a loud laugh cut through his pounding head as he walked in the direction of the kitchen.   
  
"I dunno," came the voice, and it was definitely Potter's. "It's just something my best mate's mum does when there's something wrong. She makes tea and then cleans something by hand."   
  
"Mippy has been meaning to..."   
  
"No, I get it," Potter said, cutting the elf off. "It seems like Malfoy's a bit of a handful right now, and this place is huge. You're doing what you can."   
  
Hearing someone he had hated so fiercely sympathizing with his house elf was bizarre, and Draco wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't dreaming, but he didn't stop to dwell on it. Instead he went into the kitchen and looked around. He had to blink hard for the image of Harry sodding Potter, bent over his counters with a rag and a bucket of soapy water to make sense, but there it was.  
  
"What in Merlin's name are you _doing?_ " he managed to get out, and his voice cracked a bit.  
  
"Er...cleaning?" Potter said, and Mippy squeaked before throwing herself in front of him.  
  
"Master Draco! Mippy is being very sorry! Mippy did not mean to-"  
  
Draco cut her off with a raised hand. "It's fine, Mippy. The world has gone arse over tit today, it seems. I heard something about tea?"   
  
Potter pointed to the table that was already free of dust and shining. "There," he said. "Mippy was good enough to tell me how you take it."   
  
"Right." Draco picked up the cup, kept warm with a charm and sipped, noting that it was exactly how he liked it. It also cleared his head and made him feel more human, so he blinked and looked at Potter, who had gone back to scrubbing. "Why?"   
  
"Why what?"   
  
Draco scowled. "You know what. Don't play dumb."   
  
"To hear you tell it, I'm not playing," Potter fired back.  
  
Draco just huffed. "Potter."   
  
"Because things are a mess around here," Potter said finally. "And...I think you could use the help."   
  
"I don't need your pity," Draco practically spat.  
  
Harry whipped around and stared at him. "It's not pity! It's not. Look, Malfoy. I know you hate me, and I know you don't like it here. I don't blame you. But...let's just call it part of my job, alright? I'm supposed to make sure you're alright out here, and I figure this is better than asking you stupid questions once a week."   
  
"So you're going to clean my house instead?"   
  
Potter shrugged. "If I have to, yeah. I'm good at cleaning."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and let himself sink down into one of the chairs at the table. "Potter, you're good at everything."   
  
"No. I'm not." Potter turned back around and returned to scrubbing.   
  
"Name one thing you're not good at."   
  
"Potions."   
  
Draco got the feeling that that hadn't been what Potter had meant at first, but he couldn't deny that he was right about that. "Fine. So there's one thing. Are you any good at drinking?"   
  
Potter turned his head and smiled. "Might be. Why?"  
  
"Because there are still about twenty bottles of decades old scotch in my father's study, and if you're going to clean my house, you might as well drink while you do it." Draco didn't know why he was doing this. It felt suspiciously like reaching out, but he remembered that Potter had reached out first. His job was to renew spells and make sure Draco wasn't plotting against the Ministry, but it seemed Potter actually wanted to help him. It was strange, but not entirely unwelcome. Apparently being cooped up in this house with Mippy was making him starved for any company, even Potter's.  
  
Draco could feel those vivid eyes on him, as if Potter was trying to work out what Draco's angle was, and Draco just stared back at him, too tired and wrung out to be concealing anything.  
  
"Alright," Potter said finally. "But not tonight. I think you need to give the scotch a break, and I don't want to drink alone."   
  
That was fair enough. So Draco drank his tea. "Next week, then."   
  
And that was how it started.


	2. Chapter 2

"What happened to you and girl Weasley?"   
  
Harry sipped at the amber liquid in his glass, eyebrows going at up the taste. It was different than Firewhiskey, smoother and without the burn, and he could feel it going to work on him already. "Hm?" he asked, having missed the question.  
  
"Girl Weasley," Malfoy repeated. They were sitting in the freshly cleaned parlor on opposite ends of the couch. The curtains were pulled back, letting in sunlight through the cleaned windows, and all of the glass and broken furniture had been vanished. "I look at the paper from time to time, and there's been no announcement of your engagement."   
  
"So that means there isn't one?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Malfoy shrugged. "Either that or you've killed Rita Skeeter because that seems to be the only way to get her to stop writing about you."   
  
Harry snorted. "Yeah, you're probably right. We...didn't get back together. After the war."   
  
"Why not?"   
  
He considered telling Malfoy to mind his own business, but after being vague when Ron and Hermione and Mrs. Weasley had asked, Harry found himself wanting to talk about it. "We just...we came out of the war as different people than we went into it, you know? She lost a brother, and I...well. I was different. I didn't want the same things anymore."  
  
Malfoy nodded. "That makes sense." He took a large gulp of his drink and leaned back against the couch cushions.  
  
Harry lifted his eyebrows. "Really? That's it? No mockery or jokes about how maybe the Boy Who Lives can't satisfy in bed or something?"   
  
"Why in Merlin's name would I make jokes about your prowess in bed, Potter?" Malfoy asked, looking confused.   
  
"For one, that's completely off topic. And for another, everyone knows you're a virgin."   
  
Harry choked on his next sip of scotch. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded. People couldn't just... _tell_ that. Could they? It wasn't that he was ashamed of it, it was just...  
  
Malfoy was laughing, and Harry noted that it was the first time he had seen him look something other than drunk or miserable. "I was taking the piss, Potter, calm down. I spend literally no time thinking about what goes on in your bed, I can assure you. And if you are in fact a virgin, which your reaction leads me to believe is true, then I rather think you have a good excuse."   
  
Harry just gave him a blank look and Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Voldemort, you pillock. You had other things to do."   
  
"Oh. Right. I suppose you managed to fit in it, though. The sex thing."   
  
Malfoy snorted. "Listen to you, 'the sex thing'. Yes, Potter, I have had sex. If you recall, Voldemort didn't become an issue for me until I was sixteen. I had plenty of time for fun before that."   
  
As much as it startled Harry to be thinking about Malfoy and sex at the same time, he had to wonder what it was like. Someone like Malfoy who was good at pretty much everything probably got no complaints in bed. Realizing that this conversation was taking an alarmingly personal turn, Harry took another swallow of scotch and sought to change the subject.  
  


* * *

  
Draco had thought that having Harry Potter tromping through his house and trying to put things right would have been something akin to torture, but it was actually more entertaining than anything else.  
  
"That's not where that goes," he drawled as Potter pushed a wing back chair into a corner, apparently forgetting that he had magic and could move it without working up a sweat.  
  
"Well, you apparently thought it went in the middle of the floor," Potter shot back. "So I'm not really concerned with its proper place, Malfoy. You don't like it, move it yourself."   
  


* * *

  
"You call that mirror clean, Potter?" Draco asked, looking over Potter's shoulder.  
  
"Do you want to do it?"   
  
Draco wrinkled his nose. "No."   
  
"Then shut your face."   
  


* * *

  
"What's down there?" Potter asked, peering through an open door.   
  
"Dungeons," Draco said flatly. "You've been there."   
  
Potter paled and shut the door. "We'll just... leave that as it is, then."   
  
"Fine with me."   
  


* * *

  
"What do you mean you can't cook?"   
  
Draco shrugged. "I've never learned. Why is it a big deal?"   
  
"Because it is, now come here."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"I'm going to teach you something."   
  


* * *

  
And so it went.   
  
Harry didn't know when he'd stopped dreading making the trip to Malfoy Manor, but at some point it became less of a chore and more of a break. In September, Auror training started in earnest, and it was a relief to have Fridays to drink at the Leaky with Ron and Hermione and then Saturdays at the manor after a long week of being put through his paces.   
  
Every Saturday saw him cleaning a different room in the massive house with help from Mippy, while Malfoy watched and made snide comments. But even those had lost their malice. On one memorable occasion, Harry had even tried to teach Malfoy how to actually use his kitchen. Harry found himself wondering if he and Malfoy were actually becoming friends, and _then_ he wondered why that idea didn't bother him as much as it would have before.   
  
When it came down to it, Malfoy wasn't that bad. He was sad and lonely, that much was obvious, and maybe that had changed his personality some because Harry never saw him as the massively unpleasant boy from school. He was still sarcastic and overly posh, but Harry found those things more amusing than annoying these days.  
  
There was a calendar with his checklist, and Harry marked off one week whenever he left the manor, noting that time was moving much quicker than he was accustomed to. Already eighteen of the fifty-two weeks had been marked off.  
  
He was in a good mood when he walked up the drive to the manor on a cold Saturday in early December. The grounds were frosted with snow and ice, but they looked better than usual. He and Mippy had done some grooming where they could back in October, but there were still plenty to be done once the snow melted and Spring arrived. Maybe he would try to talk Malfoy into going out into the yard for a snowball fight or something, just for a change of pace.  
  
Harry put his hand on the ornate doors of the manor, remembering how surprised he had been when he'd realized that Malfoy must have changed the wards to let him in without Mippy's help. They'd never spoken of it, but Harry was pleased that Malfoy seemed to trust him.  
  
"Malfoy?" he called as he walked in, hanging his coat and using a quick spell to get the melted snow off of his boots before he passed into the entrance way. "I know you're keen on the scotch, but it's bloody cold out, and I was thinking..." He trailed off when he saw Malfoy sitting at the bottom of the giant staircase that led up to the second floor and then split off to the separate wings of the manor. Malfoy had his head in his hands, and his sleeves rolled up enough that Harry could see the bottom of his Mark. "What's up?" he asked, walking closer.  
  
When Malfoy lifted his head, his eyes were red rimmed, and Harry could see a bottle of the scotch on the step next to him. Malfoy had gotten much better about the drinking over the last month or so, but something seemed to have pushed him into a relapse.  
  
Wordlessly, Malfoy held out a piece of parchment. Harry took it and looked down, reading the elegant script that covered it.  
  
 _Darling,  
I do wish that I could come back for the holidays, truly. Nothing would make me happier than to see you again and spend Christmas with you like we used to. Unfortunately, it isn't possible. England is a hostile place for someone like me at the moment, and I'd rather not risk it. I hate to think of you spending Christmas alone, darling, but think of next year. You can join me here, and we'll celebrate properly.  
Love,   
Your Mother_  
  
Harry made a face and looked up. "Oh." He remembered Malfoy writing to his mother, since part of Harry's job was to approve all of Malfoy's correspondence while he was there, to make sure that he wasn't sending letters to people he shouldn't have been.  
  
Malfoy snorted and looked back down at the step he was sitting on. "Oh indeed."   
  
"I'm sure she'd come if she could, Malfoy."   
  
He shook his head. "No. It was stupid of me to ask her in the first place. I just thought...the place looks less like a mausoleum now, and I wanted her to see it. I wanted it to be like..." Malfoy closed his eyes. "But it won't be like that anymore, will it? She's moved on."   
  
Harry frowned. "No, she hasn't. She's your mum, Malfoy."   
  
Malfoy raised his eyes and gave him a flat look. "Just because your mother loved you enough to sacrifice herself doesn't mean all mothers are like that, Potter."   
  
Harry ignored that since it wasn't an insult. "Listen to me, Malfoy. I know it hurts to read something like that, but you have to trust me when I tell you that your mum loves you. More than anything."   
  
"And why do I have to trust you?" Malfoy asked, more hostility in his tone than Harry had heard for a while. "How would you know anything about what my mother feels for me?"  
  
"Because I've seen it. I..." Harry let out a breath and then kept talking. "Your mother's love for you saved my life."   
  
Malfoy gaped at him, eyes wide. "What?"   
  
"Fuck." Harry said and then dropped down to sit next to him. "You can't tell anyone this, okay? I don't want it getting around. It's not something that I just tell people."  
  
"Then why are you telling me?"  
  
"Because I think you need to hear it." And from there Harry proceeded to tell Malfoy all about the forest. About him going to die, and about Narcissa Malfoy asking after her son, emotion and something like desperation in her voice as she whispered to Harry. And then how she had looked Voldemort in his eyes and lied to him, saving Harry's life all because her son was still alive. "I'm pretty sure if I'd told her you were dead, she would have just let Voldemort take another crack at me," he said, ending the story and shrugging, waiting for a reaction.  
  
Malfoy was sitting there, looking at him with some combination of emotions warring in those grey eyes. Harry couldn't tell if one of them was disbelief or awe, and it made him uncomfortable to think about Malfoy of all people being awestruck because of him. That wasn't how this worked. Malfoy was meant to sneer and tell him that he wasn't special.   
  
Harry was considering prodding him to see if that would get a reaction when Malfoy leaned forward and kissed him.  
  


* * *

  
Draco was horrified at himself. He was horrified and appalled and...and...a lot of other big words that meant shocked and disgusted.   
  
He was also drunk. Again.   
  
It had only been a few days since he'd fucked up so royally, and he didn't think he had been sober for more than five minutes since it had happened.   
  
Of course Potter had been the bigger person about it. He always had to be like that, didn't he? The bloody...the fucking...  
  
Bloody buggering hell.  
  
It was no use. His brain was having a hard time coming up with good insults, and Draco lamented the fact that he was probably going mad.   
  
He'd kissed Potter.   
  
He'd _kissed_ Potter.  
  
He'd kissed _Potter_.   
  
The voice in his head that sometimes sounded like Pansy was calling him melodramatic, but really Draco thought it was warranted. What on earth had possessed him to do something like that? The problem, he supposed, was that he knew exactly why he'd done it.  
  
For one, he found that he actually _liked_ Potter. Quite a bit, actually, which was alarming in itself. Potter was funny and thoughtful, and most of the qualities that had seemed so irritating when they were at school were less so now.  
  
The other reason was because Potter had cared. Or at least he'd seemed to. Potter was under no obligations other than to make sure Draco wasn't trying to escape or take over the world, and instead he had come in and made everything – well, most things – better. He had cleaned up the manor, made Draco endless cups of tea, drank Lucius' scotch with him. And then he had told that story about Draco's mother and the Dark Lord and coming back from the dead.  
  
If it had been anyone but Potter, Draco would have called them a liar, but things like that seemed to happen to the great idiot, and Draco believed it.   
  
It was obviously something that Potter didn't tell many people, and the fact that he had shared it with him, simply because he had been feeling sad (and pathetic) about his mother's absence had made Draco more overcome with feeling than he had been in a while. And apparently his brain had decided that the best way to show that feeling was to kiss Potter.  
  
To Potter's credit, he hadn't flipped out. There had been a lot of staring, and then he'd cleared his throat and gone on with his checklist, renewing the spell on Draco's bracelet and making the ball of light zoom around before claiming a prior engagement and leaving with a shaky smile that didn't reach his eyes.  
  
Draco knew for a fact that Potter had been lying. After weeks of the same routine and listening to Potter while pretending not to, he knew that Fridays were for drinking at the Leaky Cauldron with Granger and the Weasel and Sundays were for dinner at the Burrow.  
  
But Saturdays were _his_. Or at least they had been before he'd gone and ruined everything. They were supposed to drink and make snide comments at each other, but instead, Draco was working his way through the scotch on his own.  
  
"Master Draco," came Mippy's hesitant voice. "Master Draco, you should be drinking something else."   
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't want to drink anything else, Mippy. There's no point." He had been drinking since noon when he'd woken up, and it was after five now. Somehow he'd crossed over drunk and was becoming clear headed again, much to his dismay. He _liked_ the fog that had been obscuring his thoughts. His thoughts were maudlin, and they made him sick.  
  
He was supposed to be better than this. He was Draco sodding Malfoy for fuck's sake. But here he was, mooning over a boy like love sick Hufflepuff.   
  
Mippy must have left at some point because she popped back into the room, tugging at his sleeve. "Mippy has run Master Draco's bath," she said.   
  
"Fine, Mippy," Draco relented, getting to his feet and swaying dangerously. "I will take the fucking bath if it will make you stop bloody nagging at me."   
  
He managed to make it to the bathroom and get undressed, slipping in the deliciously hot water without falling and cracking his head open. The water was soothing, and he tipped his head back against the tiles behind him, closing his eyes just for a moment.  
  
When he opened them again, everything was different. Well, he was still in the bath, but he had sunk further down in it, the water up to his chin. There were...hands? Under his arms, squeezing tight and uncomfortable, and he struggled to get away.  
  
"Malfoy! Malfoy! Stop kicking you fucking- It's just me!"   
  
The voice was familiar, and Draco blinked to make himself focus, the face of a Harry Potter unblurring as Potter leaned over him, looking anxious.  
  
"Are you trying to drown me?" he mumbled, unsure of what was going on.  
  
Potter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, still holding him up. "No, you idiot. I'm trying to save you from fucking drowning. Mippy showed up at my house talking about how you'd gone into the bath and she couldn't wake you up. She was frantic."   
  
Draco looked around and saw that the elf was nowhere to be seen, though he felt a pang of guilt for worrying her like that. He opened his mouth to say something, and then realized that he was in the bath still.   
  
Naked.   
  
"Get out," he rasped, trying to get out of Potter's grip.  
  
"What? Merlin, you really are a first class prat, aren't you? I get dragged out of my house to save your arse, and you-"  
  
"No, moron," Draco cut in. "I'd like to put some fucking clothes on if that's quite alright with you." Suddenly he felt more sober than he had in days, and he could practically feel the blood rising in his face.  
  
Potter didn't look like he was faring any better, and Draco didn't think he imagined the split second glance down that Potter tried to cover up by letting him go and stepping back quickly. "Right. I'll just...er...go. Since you're...not dead and all."   
  
"Yes, yes," Draco snapped, waving him towards the door. "You've saved the day, and you're free to go. Goodbye."   
  
He refused to look up until he heard the door close, and then he let out a heavy sigh. He didn't know why he was kidding himself. Potter was not his friend. He was just someone who was currently obligated to keep him from losing his mind. Once the fifty-two weeks were over, Potter would go back to his life and Draco would...  
  
Well, he'd do something. Move to France with his mother. Learn how to bake bread or pastries and blend in with the French people.  
  
Draco peeked into his bedroom and saw that it was empty, so he grabbed his dressing gown and pulled it around himself before padding down to the kitchen to make tea. He felt like he needed it, especially now that his head was pounding from the alcohol.  
  
"Master Draco is not going to be happy, Harry Potter," Mippy was saying as he pushed into the kitchen.  
  
"Yeah, well, I sort of don't care how 'Master Draco' feels about it," Potter snapped back, and Draco blinked, surprised that he was still there.   
  
Potter turned to look at him, holding an empty bottle of the scotch and pointing to the row of full ones on the counter. "I'm emptying your stash, Malfoy," he said, voice firm.   
  
"And what gives you the right to do that?" Draco asked, his mouth going a bit dry at the sight of Potter in a veritable rage. Merlin, but he looked good angry.  
  
"You're ruining yourself. You're scaring the hell out of poor Mippy, and you keep...you're doing things that you don't mean or want to do because you can't fucking control yourself, and I'm sick of it." Potter grabbed another bottle and opened it, dumping it down the sink.  
  
Draco supposed he should have been more upset about the waste of such expensive alcohol, and he was sure he would feel the loss later when Potter was gone, but at the moment he was confused.   
  
"I will admit that I've not been...in the best place of late," he said slowly. "And Mippy, I'm sorry I keep worrying you. Truly I am."   
  
She squeaked and bowed before disappearing, clearly overcome with emotion.  
  
Draco shook his head and looked back at Potter. "What have I done that I didn't mean?" he wanted to know.  
  
"Just leave it, Malfoy."   
  
"I will not. I want to know what you're talking about."   
  
Potter gripped the bottle and then dropped it into the sink where it shattered, making Draco wince. "You kissed me," he said, voice barely audible. "And you were probably too drunk then to remember it."   
  
Draco blinked, surprised. He had assumed Potter didn't want to bring that up. "I remember it," he said softly. "I hadn't had very much then."   
  
Green eyes lifted to his. "Then why? Why would you do that? Do you know how long it took me to fall asleep that night? Hell, every night since then? I've been lying awake trying to figure out what the hell you could have been playing at, and I still don't fucking know!"   
  
"Stop shouting at me!" Draco snapped. "Why do you think I did it? Why do people kiss other people, Potter?"   
  
"I know why _people_ do it," Potter replied, voice even. "I just don't know why _you_ would."   
  
"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"   
  
"It means that you're...I don't know! A fucking Slytherin. Nothing's ever straight forward with you. There's always a motive or a plot, and...and I won't be used, Malfoy."   
  
Draco's eyes narrowed, and something that might have been hurt rippled through him. "That's what you think?"   
  
Potter raked a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to think. You're stuck here, and maybe...maybe you're just bored and you think I'm entertainment. Let's fuck with Potter's head or something."  
  
Instead of answering, Draco just turned on his heel, no longer in the mood for tea or scotch or anything but his bed and the oblivion of sleep.  
  


* * *

  
The rest of Harry's week did not get better. He couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy kissing him and the sight of the prat still and sinking down in his bathtub and the look of carefully masked hurt on his face when he had opened his mouth and made an idiot of himself.   
  
Practically every time he closed his eyes, he could see the vulnerable look on that pale face and feel the ghost of those soft, dry lips against his. He didn't want to think about it, mostly because it just made him feel worse, but he couldn't help it, and it was driving him mad.  
  
On Friday morning he was called out of training to Kingsley's office.   
  
The large man was sitting behind his desk, holding a rolled up piece of parchment. "This came in yesterday evening," he said. "From Draco Malfoy."   
  
Harry's heart sank, and he sat down in the leather lined chair across from the desk.  
  
"What...what did he have to say?" Harry asked, wringing his hands in his lap.  
  
"Basically he wants a new official. He didn't go into detail, but he just says that it would be best for the both of you." Kingsley sighed. "Normally, I would have to oblige his request, or at least follow up on it, but since it's the two of you, and I figure it has something to do with your history, I'm going to give you the chance to address this with him. If he still wants a new official, though, I'll have to grant it to him."   
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Kingsley. I'll...talk to him."   
  
After the things he had said the last time he was there, he didn't know if Malfoy would even listen.  
  
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said predictably later that evening at the Leaky when he finally broke down and told her and Ron why had had been so quiet. "How did you think that was going to make him feel?"   
  
"Then you think he meant it when he kissed me?" Harry asked, swirling his pint around.   
  
"Merlin," Ron said, cutting in and shaking his head. "I would have run for the hills."   
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's because you don't have a curious bone in your body, Ronald," she replied.   
  
"And there's nothing wrong with that, but this is about Harry." She turned back to him. "I don't know if he meant it, Harry, but I know that you've seemed happier for spending time with him, and I think...I think if you're at all invested in whatever it is the two of you have built over the last few months, you owe it to him to hear him out."  
  
Harry sighed because she was right. Of course she was right. He should have just _asked_ Malfoy what the hell the kissing was about instead of jumping to conclusions and getting offended.   
  
"I'm such an idiot," he said, letting his forehead thunk against the table.  
  
"No argument there, mate," Ron returned, chuckling.  
  
Harry frowned and looked up at him. "Why aren't you freaking out about this? You hate Malfoy. And...he's a bloke. Who kissed me."   
  
"Dunno. I mean...it's none of my business, is it? Who you're kissing. At least since it's not my little sister anymore. And if you want to kiss Malfoy, and he's serious about it, then..." Ron shrugged. "You deserve to be happy."   
  
"Thanks," Harry said. "I should probably talk to him."  
  
"Sooner rather than later," Hermione pointed out in her no nonsense voice.  
  


* * *

  
It probably would have been smarter to have waited for Saturday than to be trudging up the path to the manor in the biting cold at eleven on a Friday night, but Hermione's words were still ringing in his head, and he didn't think he'd have been able to sleep anyway.  
  
Harry had barely touched the door when it was opened by a wide eyed Mippy. "Harry Potter," she breathed. "Master Draco was being sure you would never be coming back."   
  
Harry sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'll bet. I'm sure that's what he wanted."   
  
The elf shook her head violently, floppy ears flapping. "No, no, Harry Potter. Master Draco was seeming sad when he was saying it. Master Draco is liking Harry Potter."   
  
"Probably not anymore," Harry mumbled. "Is he...he's not drunk, is he? Right now?"   
  
Mippy shook her head. "No. Mippy is being...Mippy has..." she hesitated and then seemed to draw herself up. "Mippy has poured it all out, Harry Potter. All of Master Lucius' alcohol is gone."   
  
Harry grinned at her. "Good for you, Mippy. How did Malfoy take that?"   
  
"Master Draco is not knowing yet."   
  
"Don't worry. I won't let him hit you or anything."   
  
Mippy looked scandalized. "Master Draco would never-"  
  
"Okay, okay," Harry said, holding his hands up. "You know, I'm beginning to realize how little I actually know about Malfoy. D'you...do you think I could see him? I just want to apologize to him for what happened the other day."   
  
"Come in," Mippy let him in and pointed up the stairs. "Master Draco's bedroom is being to the right of his parlor."   
  


* * *

  
Draco was dreaming. He had to be in order for the image of Harry Potter sat on the edge of his bed to be real. Potter had yelled at him and then disappeared in a huff, and Draco was never going to see him again. At least not in any meaningful way. Sure, once he was free to leave this wretched place, he would probably run into him in Diagon Alley or something, but they wouldn't talk. Not like they had been talking before.  
  
So when the image looked at him and licked its lips, Draco thought he could be forgiven for the shiver that went through him. It just wasn't fair.  
  
"Malfoy? You with me?"   
  
Draco blinked harder and frowned, sitting up. He didn't feel like he was still asleep, and when he nudged Potter with his toe under the covers, he felt solid enough.   
  
"Is this not a dream?" he asked.   
  
Potter gave him a crooked grin. "Nope. Sorry."   
  
"Oh. Then get the fuck out."   
  
"Malfoy, I just want to talk to you."   
  
Draco scowled. "Do I look like I care? You...you insulted me and accused me of...and I was only trying to..."   
  
He shook his head. "Get out."   
  
"No," Potter said firmly. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm really, really sorry. I know I was an arse to you, and you didn't deserve it, and I'm sorry."   
  
"And you think that's good enough, Potter?" Draco asked, shaking his head. He was acutely aware that he was shirtless, and he crossed his arms over his chest.   
  
"I...I dunno. I mean. I'm still really confused, Malfoy. I still don't know why you kissed me."   
  
And that was the last straw for Draco. He threw the covers back and jumped out of the bed, hands fisted by his side. His hair was wild, and his eyes blazed with anger. "I already fucking _told_ you! I kissed you for the same reason anyone kisses anyone. You came here and you spent time with me, and put my house to rights, and you...you made me feel like...like you might actually fucking give a shit about me. Like we could start over and be friends at least. And I shouldn't have kissed you. I understand that now, but for fuck's sake. You could stop making me feel like shit about it!"   
  
Potter was just left blinking in the wake of his outburst, and he bit his lip before speaking again. "We...we are friends, Malfoy."   
  
"Oh, fuck you. No we're not. I'm your latest charity project, and when the year is over, you're going to fuck off back to your life and forget all about me."  
  
"No, I won't!" Potter said, getting up and moving closer. "Malfoy...Draco..."   
  
" _Don't_ ," Draco said, and his voice was anguished even to his own ears. "Don't. Please go? Just go."   
  
For a moment it seemed like Potter was going to do what he had said. He stood up and headed for the door, but instead of leaving through it, he closed it and then turned around. "I'm not leaving," he said softly. "Draco, I don't think you understand how confusing this is for me. I've kissed two people in my life. My whole life. One of them was Cho Chang. It was wet and awful, and it probably never should have happened, and the other was Ginny. And looking back, that probably shouldn't have happened either. I wanted her, but in the end that wasn't enough because I didn't want _her_ , you know? I wanted what I thought she represented. Family. Stability. A last chance at being fucking normal."   
  
"Why are you telling me this?" Draco asked, not lifting his head eyes from his carpet.  
  
"Because. Because...I'm so...I don't even know who I am half the bloody time, Draco. I don't know what I _want_. If you're waiting for me to make this all clear, then you're going to be waiting for a long time. What I'm saying is, if you know what you want, you should tell me. Please."   
  
Hearing it like that made Draco look up, and he saw the open honesty on Potter's face. He looked conflicted and vulnerable, and Draco let out a messy breath. "I kissed you because I wanted to. Because you mean something to me. Because you came here and you made me feel less like my life was over and because I look forward to every Saturday and seeing you and knowing that...that I'm not going to be alone for a little while."   
  
"You always have Mippy," Potter pointed out.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "That's not the same, and you know it."   
  
Potter quirked a smile at him, and it made something in Draco's chest flutter. "I know," he said. "Do it again."   
  
"Do what?"   
  
"Kiss me again."   
  
"Potter..."   
  
"Please?"   
  
Well, when he asked like that. Draco took a step forward and then another and another, pushing Potter against the door and kissing him firmly. It was less tentative than the first kiss, but still nowhere near as much as he wanted. He didn't want to scare Potter off, though, not when those lips were moving against his.   
  
Potter tasted like beer and mint and Draco licked his lips slowly, sliding his tongue along the seam between them and then pressing forward when Potter gasped softly. Potter's hands came up to grip at his shoulders, and Draco rested his hands at Potter's waist, fighting the urge to rub against him.   
  
His heart was pounding, and he could feel Potter's beating rapidly as well, and he pulled back before he could let this go too far, still afraid of rejection.  
  
"Wow," Potter breathed. "I...wow."   
  
Draco smirked. "It's a talent."  
  
"I...that felt...really good," Potter said. "Really, really good."   
  
"So articulate."   
  
"Shut up. So...just to be clear...this isn't just because I'm the only one around, right? If Ron or Neville or someone had been assigned to be your official, you wouldn't be kissing them, would you?"   
  
Draco shuddered. "Potter, if you ever mention kissing and Weasley in the same sentence again, I will hex your bits off. As for Longbottom, despite his rather stunning transformation over the last couple of years, no. I wouldn't kiss him."   
  
"Stunning transformation?"   
  
"Oh, come on," Draco said rolling his eyes. Now that it seemed like things were going to be alright, he was feeling more like himself. "Don't tell me you didn't notice."   
  
"Well, yeah, I guess I did. Just didn't think you would notice. I thought Gryffindors were beneath your notice."   
  
Draco met his eyes. "Not all of them." He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "What now?"  
  
"I dunno," Potter replied. "I guess now we see what happens."  
  


* * *

  
**33 weeks later**  
  
"Draco Malfoy, you have hereby completed your sentence, and it is my pleasure to proclaim you a free man. Congratulations," Harry said as he tapped the bracelet around Draco's wrist. It glowed for a moment and then disappeared in a flash of light.  
  
Draco stared at his bare wrist and then grinned. Freedom. He was free.   
  
The year hadn't taken as long as he had thought it would to go by, and most of that was down to Harry being there for him and keeping him from going mad. He'd also had plenty of time to think on his own. To decide how everything was going to be different and how he was going to live. Now it was August first, exactly one year to the day that he had been sentenced to house arrest, and he was practically giddy.  
  
"What do you want to do?" Harry asked, smiling at him and rubbing his fingers over the skin of his wrist.  
  
"I want..." It was a big question, but he thought he had an idea of what he really wanted. "I want to go to yours," he said. "I want to go to a restaurant or the park or any place that isn't here."   
  
Harry laughed. "Yeah, I can imagine that you're sick of looking at these same walls by now. I was actually going to talk to you about that..."   
  
Draco arched an eyebrow. "About what?"   
  
"Well. I know you were thinking of joining your mother now that you're free, but...I wanted you to know that you have another option."   
  
"Another option?" Draco's heart was racing, and he folded his arms, unwilling to get his hopes up just yet. If asked, Draco would probably admit that he loved Harry Potter. Probably. Maybe. He could have had anyone that he wanted, but instead he had stayed with Draco through long weeks of confinement. As much as he'd thought he wanted to go far away and rejoin his mother, the thought of leaving Harry now made him feel ill.  
  
"I thought maybe... you might...want to live with me." Harry shrugged. "I mean, the house is still sort of a mess, even after a year, but I think I've proven that I know how to clean up and make a place livable. So. What do you think?"   
  
Draco hesitated for a moment, but then a smile broke over his face and he tugged Harry closer to him, his lips hovering just a breath away from Harry's. "I think I'd like that very much," he murmured and then kissed him, feeling that same familiar swoop in his belly that had kept him afloat for the last seven or so months of his sentence.   
  
Harry pulled back and laughed. "Yeah?"   
  
"Yes. I can't leave Mippy here, though."  
  
"Well, of course not," Harry said. "There's plenty of room for Mippy, and you'll probably be horribly dissatisfied with my house anyway, so we'll need her." He hesitated and then spoke on. "You know that means we're going to have to tell people about this."  
  
That made Draco wrinkle his nose, but he nodded. "I suppose it's about time. We have been at this for a while." Nearly a year, which was unheard of but no less wonderful. Draco was _happy_.   
  
And then they were kissing again. Draco didn't think he was going to get tired of that, ever, but he pulled away, pressing a hand to Harry's chest to hold him at arm's length. "Oh, no you don't," he teased. "I'm not getting distracted now. Not when there's a whole world out there that I haven't seen for an entire year. Come on. You can have the privilege of buying me my first ice cream."   
  
Harry shook his head, but took Draco's hand and didn't protest when he was dragged towards the door. "Whatever you want," he said.   
  
"That's an excellent mantra to have."   
  
"Prat."   
  
"You like it."   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. "Maybe."   
  
Draco beamed and headed out into the sunshine.


End file.
